Poured Glass Windows
by Doneril
Summary: “Grandmother, there’s someone at the door.” An aging Hermione recalls her youth.


She liked listening to the rain on the windows.

Pitter-patter.

Pitter-patter.

At her old school, she never even dared think of it by name, she could never hear the rain on the windows in the common room. The common room was gold and red and full of boys and girls and pranks and books and cats and toads and all manner of noisy things. The twins would be in the corner, harassing first years into being guinea pigs, sometimes literally. A bespectacled boy would be polishing his broom while comparing strategy with a freckle-faced girl. A red haired boy, arrogant and pretentious as a teenager could be, would be berating younger students for breaking curfew.

No, no, she was confusing her years again. What had she been thinking of? Oh, yes – the rain.

She had spent most of her school years in the library, one way or another, except for those few months she was carved of stone in the infirmary. When she was in her third form, she had spent more than a year in the library. It was old and made of stone and filled with books and scrolls and manuscripts and every form of writing she knew and some that she didn't. But sometimes the best part of the library was the quiet. In the library there were no pranksters, no sportsmen, no flirting youths, no loud animals. In the library, there were books and quiet students and the librarian. When she was in the library, she could hear the rain on the poured glass windows: pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

"_Grandmother, there's someone at the door."_

She turned to see the little boy. He was ten years old, nearly eleven, and she looked after him while his parents, her daughter and son-in-law, worked. They were bright children, both of them, and worked on engineering automobiles. Their son was a bright boy, exceptional for his age. Sometimes strange things happened when he was emotional. Once, he threw a tantrum and broke all of the windows in the house. Another time, he made his stuffed horse walk all on its own.

She had been the same way. She summoned books from the top shelf of the library when she was eight. When she was ten, she accidentally erased her father's memory of who stole the last chocolate biscuits. And, when she was eleven, she received a letter from a bird. She went to a school and learned to do more than summon books and erase memories; the school with a loud red and gold room and a quiet scroll-filled library. Her grandson would never attend that school.

A dark-haired man with a prominent nose and hunched figure stood on her doorstep. She had fancied herself in love with him, once. He had been famous and she had been plain. He was powerful and skilful and she was knowledgeable and brave. It had seemed a match. But she had learned that it was not so.

Standing in the rain, her greyed hair began to curl. She hated standing in the rain.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

It reminded her of the day her heart died. She was covered in blood and dust and magic and it rained. The rain mixed the dirt and blood and battle sweat and turned the grounds into a field worthy of Ragnarok. She stood over a red haired boy's body, tears on her cheeks, and watched a boy battle a man – and lose. While it rained, cleaning the fields of blood in its own way, she stood in the trees, a refugee, and watched her haven, her school, collapse. There was no red and gold room to laugh in. There was no library to listen in. There were no twins harassing younger students. There was no boy to polish his broom. It was gone.

The large nosed man, sporting grey hair himself, looked at her, but without much hope. _"I have a letter."_ His English was much better than it had been when the two first met, more than seventy years ago. Now he merely had an accent.

"_No."_

"_We take the English now."_

"_No."_

"_We will regain your country someday. But you need to learn."_

"_But –"_

"_No, Victor. No one in my house will ever see that again."_

She closed the door on the man. She sniffed. It hurt to see him now when all the others were gone. They were gone. It was gone. What was once her life was gone.

"_Grandmother, why are you crying?"_

And no one would ever see it ever again.


End file.
